Dance
by O f f beat
Summary: On the battlefield, he is just Kakashi — as opposed to Kakashi sensei — and she is just Sakura, no longer his former student. On the battlefield, away from home, he loves her more than he should. [kakasaku oneshot]


**Note:** Well, it was inevitable. I was bound to join the Naruto fandom eventually.

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**-Dance-**

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He feels the cold metal bed under him and flinches as it bites into his searing hot skin. It isn't a warm night by any means, but his body is humid and sticky with anticipation that exists for reasons he knows but doesn't want to mull on, and it is his guilt that pushes it away, deep into unknown quarters so he doesn't have to think on it.

Matters like those are better left untouched.

He closes his eyes and inhales a painfully cold breath. Slowly, agonizingly, his erratic heart slows down and the adrenaline in his blood dissolves until the nerves in his system transmit feelings he _should_ be feeling. In reality, his fingers are numb from persistent use in the cold, and the deep cut on his shoulder stings every time he moves.

He smiles a bitter, old smile.

He is ready.

And then, almost immediately after his declaration, the flap of the medical tent lifts opens, and she enters. He runs an intent gaze over her, matching from his memory the curves of her body—the curves his fingers know better—before greedily tracing with his eyes the contours of her face. Her lips jumpstart his heart in a frenzy again, and he inwardly curses at his own weakness.

As she comes nearer, his senses fling on full alert. There is a clipboard in her hand through which she diligently flips papers, humming whimsically once and awhile over statements that catch her eye.

"Well Kakashi," their gazes meet and he knows their hopeless dance has begun, "I'm guessing it was a successful mission?"

It is an obtuse question, to which his presence is clearly an answer, but he responds nonetheless, out of habit. "Aa."

His voice cracks slightly because of his sore throat, and he swallows. It hurts a lot like many other things.

She nods softly, dropping her mission report before ceremoniously slipping on a pair of gloves. Her fingers prod the gash on his shoulder experimentally before running over the charred flesh and tender tendons. Chakra massages ripped muscle, sewing together broken connections with the expertise she is renowned for, and she is so close that he must bite the insides of his cheeks from responding. He bites so hard, in fact, that he recognizes the bitter taste of blood on his tongue.

He clings tonight, like ever other night that has similarly transpired, to his self-control. He _can_ resist, he tells himself. He _will_ resist it...

But he catches a whiff of her hair when she moves to scribble something on her clipboard, and he knows in an instant that he is fighting against an inevitable fate.

When she returns, he has given up. He sits up, moves sideward so his legs dangle off the edge of the bed and she is caught in between. She says nothing when his hands reach her cheeks, or when his thumb slowly brushes against her lips, but he can feel her pulse beating just as rapidly as his.

His hands fall from her face, down her back, then to her waist, where they grip onto her with hungry force. She doesn't respond when he presses his mouth to hers, or when his lips travel to her neck, but he can hear her hitched breathing as she loses grip on her resistance.

"Sakura," he murmurs, because it is the only word he can say right now, and he hopes he can convey with it exactly what she does to him.

But suddenly the walls of the tent shake from a rather potent gust of wind, and in the back of his mind—and he expects in hers as well—flutters the familiar chakra of a teammate wandering within dangerous perimeters of them. She disentangles herself from him quickly and stands dumbly several feet away, unsure of what to do next.

"Sakura," he says again, reaching for her once the coast is clear, but she sidesteps his reach, and his arms, useless and unable to reach their target, fall numbly to his side. He is not surprised she has done this, for it is the natural way for their special encounters to transpire, and experience has taught him how to ignore the hurt. He waits for the dialogue that is engraved in his memory.

She picks up her clipboard. "I have to go." _I can't do this_, she utters silently.

He nods. "I understand." _I know_, he replies inwardly.

She turns around and begins to flee. "I'll see you at home." _I'm sorry_.

He lies back down and closes his eyes. "I'll be there." _Me too._

He listens as her steps exit the medical tent, feels his heartbeat in par with those steps, and suspects once they disappear, his heart will cease too. She completely disappears, the dance officially ends, and as expected, he is still alive.

He will live to experience the vicious tango yet again.

When all is quite, when he feels the cold metal bed under him and flinches as it bites into his searing hot skin, he realizes he has come back in a full circle. His body is humid and sticky with dead anticipation, and though the wound on his shoulder no longer stings, there is a new, far heavier pain in his chest no physical abrasion can come in par with.

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**- End -**

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**Comments:** I don't even know where all this angst came from. I usually write fluff, not...not this dark matter that somehow manifested on my hard drive!

I'm sorry, Kakashi! I promise to write some happy KakuSaku for you in compensation!


End file.
